Adrian's jaw tensed. "That's exactly why you don't fight this alone."
She turned away, pressing her head against the window.
"I thought I was strong," she said. "Even after they locked me out. Even after my mother looked through me like I was nothing. I thought I could survive this."
"You will," he said. "But not by pretending it didn't happen."
Her breath hitched, but she forced a laugh, brittle and sharp. "That lying bastard. He's still performing. He's still twisting everything."
"Let it out," Adrian said, his voice low.
She turned to him slowly, eyes glassy but burning. "You think I didn't see it coming? That he'd throw me under the bus the second it suited him? I just didn't think he'd be so—" She stopped. Her throat tightened.
"Get me out of here," she whispered, voice cracking.
Adrian nodded and told the driver to take them out.
Evelyn didn't ask where they were going. She didn't care. She just wanted out of the city's spotlight, out of her skin, out of the pit in her chest.
They drove in silence.
Adrian didn't say a thing. He didn't offer apologies or empty comfort. And somehow, that was what Evelyn needed most.
The elevator ride to his penthouse was silent. Cold. Still.
Until the doors opened.
Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the glittering skyline. Everything inside was clean, sharp, expensive. But not sterile. There were signs of life. A jacket tossed over a leather chair. An open bottle of whiskey on the kitchen counter. Adrian didn't live like a robot. He lived like a man who'd been alone for too long.
Evelyn drifted to the window, her arms wrapped around herself. Adrian poured her a drink without asking and handed it to her.
Adrian poured her a drink without asking.
She didn't take it.
Instead, Evelyn sat on the edge of the massive sectional sofa, elbows on her knees, head bowed.
"I was never enough," she murmured.
Adrian watched her from across the room. "You were too much for them."
Her throat tightened. "You didn't see what they did to me. My own mother. My father—he didn't even flinch. He said I was unlovable. That it was my fault."
Her hands began to shake again.
Adrian crossed the room, his movements controlled. He crouched in front of her, just low enough to look up into her face.
"You are not unlovable, Evelyn," he said softly.
She looked down at him, eyes swimming. "Then why does it hurt like I am?"
The moment stretched. His hand brushed her knee—hesitant at first, then firmer when she didn't pull away.
Her breath caught.
And just like that, the dam cracked.
Evelyn collapsed forward into his arms, fists clutching his shirt as sobs wracked her body. Adrian didn't move at first. Then slowly—carefully—he wrapped his arms around her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other around her waist.
No words.
No promises.
Just presence.
The kind that said I see you.
Her cries were ugly and raw, but he didn't flinch. Didn't loosen his grip. When she was too exhausted to cry anymore, she found herself still in his arms—close, breath mingling with his, her fingers splayed against his chest.
"You shouldn't be here," she whispered.
"Neither should you," he replied, voice rough.
When she looked up, her face was inches from his.
And that's when it happened.
Their lips met—tentative, searching. She tasted like salt and fire. He kissed her like he was trying to silence a war inside himself.
Her hands tangled in his hair.
His fingers gripped her waist tighter.
They pulled each other closer—like two people trying to rewrite their pain with skin and heat.
Evelyn climbed into his lap without thinking. She straddled him, his breath catching as she pressed her body into his. His hands roamed her back, her thighs, her waist, not like a man seducing—but like a man anchoring himself to the only thing keeping him human.
Her dress slipped off one shoulder.
His mouth traced her collarbone.
She gasped, the sound breathy and electric.
But then—he stopped.
His hands froze.
His mouth stilled.
And slowly, he pulled back.
Evelyn blinked. "Adrian…?"
His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked carved from stone.
"If I keep going," he said, voice like gravel, "I won't stop."
She looked away, embarrassed. "Right. Of course."
She nodded slowly.
He lifted her gently—off his lap, onto the couch. Then stood and turned his back to her, raking a hand through his hair.
The silence stretched, heavy but no longer suffocating.
Adrian retrieved a blanket from a nearby cabinet. He draped it over her shoulders.
"You can stay here tonight. I'll take the guest room. Just rest, Evelyn."
She looked up at him one last time before he turned away.
Evelyn stared at him, her body still pulsing with heat, her heart a chaos of want and confusion.
Eventually, she stood. She crossed the room to him slowly, and placed her hand lightly on his chest.
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For not letting me fall."
His hand covered hers, holding it there. "You don't have to fall, Evelyn. You can rise."
____
The night was a quiet kind of heavy. The city below glittered through the massive glass windows of Adrian Wolfe's penthouse, but inside, silence reigned. Evelyn lay restless in the guest room Adrian had offered her, the dim city lights spilling across the pristine sheets, painting her in slashes of gold and shadow.
Sleep refused to come. Her mind wouldn't quiet. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Daniel's face from the interview—smug, composed, the picture of polished deceit. Every word he'd said echoed through her skull like a taunt. That she'd been unstable. That the pressure of the wedding got to her. That she had driven him away.
And people believed it.
She had stared at the screen, frozen, as the world absorbed his lies. The comments were already flooding in. Sympathy for the golden boy. Cruel speculation about the fallen bride.